


Maintenant et jamais

by kitseybarbours



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Clothed Sex, Episode: s01e09 Trou Normand, F/M, Semi-Public Sex, Will Graham Cries In Bed/On Desk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:00:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21526384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitseybarbours/pseuds/kitseybarbours
Summary: After their failed kiss, Alana pays Will a visit.
Relationships: Alana Bloom/Will Graham
Comments: 12
Kudos: 36





	Maintenant et jamais

* * *

‘Every death is different. Made to look like something else. No sadism, no torture. The method of these murders was less important to the killer than the simple fact that these people die.’

Will’s voice reaches Alana before she can see him. It’s after hours on a Friday, and Quantico is nearly deserted, but somehow she knew he’d still be here.

He’s lesson-prepping, or at least it sounds that way: ‘This killer’s design was never to be discovered. A ghost. This is what excited him, until now.’

His words are taut and intense, almost fevered. She’s seen him teach before, and knows he can get passionate, but this sounds like something else. With some apprehension, Alana steps closer and pushes the lecture hall door open wider.

Will stands at his lectern, staring out with a fierce, blank gaze. There’s something in his face that tells her right away something is wrong—this isn’t regular lecture prep—and his next words, spoken through clenched teeth, confirm her suspicions.

‘Why is he coming into the light?’ Will asks. The question is not rhetorical. He has no answer for his students. He has not yet delved deep enough into the killer’s mind to know for sure, and not knowing is driving him mad.

Alana can’t stand to look at him like this anymore. ‘Will?’ she says.

It’s as if a spell has broken. Will startles, and squints into the projector’s beam, raising a hand to cover his eyes, although he’d been staring into it previously and hadn’t seemed to notice.

‘I don’t want to interrupt if you’re rehearsing,’ Alana continues hesitantly. She hopes her voice will draw him out of whatever this strange trance might be.

But Will stares at her blankly; she wonders if he’s heard her, if he even knows she’s there. The possible negative answers to these questions set her heartbeat edging higher. But then, after a too-long moment, his eyes seem to clear. He shakes his head. ‘No,’ Will says, his voice sounding smaller somehow. ‘No, it’s okay.’

Alana looks around. The lecture hall is dark and empty; Will is utterly alone. She feels no less unsettled now that he is speaking to her. ‘Very moody in here,’ she attempts.

A wry tug to Will’s mouth. ‘That’s me all over.’

She smiles, weakly. He smiles back, empty.

‘Come on in,’ says Will. There is something abrasive in his voice, as though the words are a whip with which he self-flagellates before her. ‘I promise I won’t try to kiss you again. Unless you’ve stopped taking your own advice.’

Alana flinches. This, in fact, is exactly why she’s come to see him, despite spending her whole workday mentally enumerating every reason why she shouldn’t. In the end, trying to resist the urge was doing more harm, becoming far more exhausting and distracting, than (she figured) just giving into it would be. (She figured. She may still be wrong; but, despite everything, she wants to find out for sure.)

Because, even now, even after they’ve been over exactly how much this _wouldn’t_ work, there is something irresistible to her about Will Graham. He’s far from difficult to look at, for one thing—Alana isn’t willing to admit how many times she’s caught a glimpse of his thick dark curls and imagined sinking her fingers into them and pulling, hard. And then, of course, there’s those enormous long-lashed eyes, the look in which must have been learnt from one of his dogs. Alana has always liked sensitive men.

But it’s more than sheer physical attraction; there’s something about Will’s bearing, his movements, the way he speaks, that brings out two starkly opposing desires in her. He’s so tightly wound, constantly alert like a hunted animal. His back is always bowstring-taut, his eyes scanning each room he enters just in case he has to bolt. Beautiful, wounded Will. He is not, she knows, entirely stable, nor entirely whole.

On the one hand, she wants to draw him close and let him cry into her shoulder, to take care of him like he so obviously needs. He can’t do it himself, and they both know it.

But on the other, she wants to _make_ him cry, and watch him come apart in her hands.

It’s some combination of these two desires—each one dangerous in itself—that makes her say what she does now.

‘A doctor who treats herself has a fool for a patient,’ Alana says. ‘I regretted leaving your house the other night.’

Something sparks across Will’s face. She watches him wrestle with his expression, and his words come out with some difficulty, each one carefully controlled. ‘Regretted? Implying that you are no longer regretting, or that you are still in a state of regret?’

There is no use in not being truthful. ‘I’m criss-crossing the state line.’

‘What side of the line are you on now?’

Alana takes a deep breath. Will is waiting, tense and cautious. His eyes have been darting, refusing to fix on her, but now, finally, they focus on her face. They watch her: they widen slightly, as though he is afraid; and then they snap shut, when Alana leans forward and kisses him on the mouth.

His lips part with shock; he freezes, but only for a moment, and then, as though powerless to resist, his mouth softens into a kiss. He is just as hungry, seeking, as he was last time; but Alana doesn’t want to think about _last time_ now, about how they have already marked this path as dangerous but she is choosing to tread it anyway. Will makes soft, broken sounds against her lips, and she slips her tongue inside his mouth. He is warm and yielding. There is something so unabashed about him, so desperate for affection and touch. Even if he tries to hide it—which he does—it still bleeds from him, coating every inch of his skin and colouring every curt word he says.

In other people, she might have found this kind of sheer _need_ repellent. In Will, it turns her on.

She’s not alone in this. She can feel his hardness, growing fast between them. Without breaking the kiss, she reaches down to undo his fly, and draws him out of his boxers. Will gives a soft cry.

‘Is this okay?’ she murmurs.

Will’s breath is ragged. ‘I think we’re past _okay_ by now.’

‘I want to fuck you,’ she says, quiet and steady.

‘Regret _,_ present tense.’

‘Will.’

‘I don’t have any—’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

She spreads her legs, opens her dress, wiggles her panties down her thighs. She’s already wet—she’s spent all day thinking about this, God help her—and besides, she’s in heels and Will is braced against the desk; it’s easy for her to line herself up and draw him inside her, settling herself against him so he’s pressed flush against his desk. There’s something thrilling about this, something taboo: fucking a professor over his own desk, in his own lecture hall, even if she’s long past her student days and he’s only a contracted instructor. In any case, Will has no apparent objections.

Despite his dry remarks he still looks stunned when he enters her fully, shuddering all over. ‘Alana,’ he murmurs.

‘Shh,’ she tells him, and begins to rock her hips.

Will moans. She sees him cast a nervous glance over her shoulder to the half-ajar door, and then look quickly away. The building is deserted, and Will’s lecture hall is tucked away down a side corridor and a set of stairs; there’s no way anyone would stumble upon them unless they’d deliberately come looking.

_And who might do that?_ Alana thinks before she can stop herself. There’s only one answer, of course, and she shivers as she thinks his name, thinks of him coming across the two of them like this, as though he’d known they’d be here: _Hannibal._ What would she do if he walked in right now? What would Will?

As if he’s heard her thoughts, Will swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing; his breaths are short and constricted. Alana reaches up to card a hand through his thick curls, calming him, bringing him back to her. His lips part and he makes a soft noise when she touches his hair, so she experiments, running her nails lightly over his scalp and grabbing a fistful of curls at the nape of his neck. Will melts against her, giving a succession of little moans that verge on sobs. ‘Yes,’ he whispers, his voice straining, ‘yes.’

She cups the back of his head to draw him closer. The changing angle makes both of them gasp, Alana closing her eyes and tightening around him as he finds a sweet spot. He feels just as good inside her as she’s always imagined, and this is, perhaps, poor justification for the inevitable fallout; but at least now she knows.

‘Oh, my God,’ says Will, choked and abashed, ‘I think I’m going to—’

‘It’s all right. Come for me.’

Will’s hands come up to grip her back, clutching her dress for purchase. He buries his face in her shoulder and she is not entirely surprised to feel that his cheeks are wet. She guides him through the last few tense, trembling thrusts, and then Will says, _‘Oh,’_ and comes inside her.

‘Touch me, touch me,’ she murmurs. His shaking fingers find her clit, and with a soft sigh, her hand clenching in his hair, she soon follows him over the edge.

After, they stay there a moment, catching their breath. Will is panting quietly, his feet in their battered wingtips turned boyishly inward, as though he’s gone weak at the knees. One of his hands is still pressed into her back to keep himself upright. His tears have wet the shoulder of her dress. When she disengages herself—his hand falls limply to his side—to hike up her panties and readjust her skirt, he notices the damp patch where his cheek had rested, and he flushes with shame. Will swipes at his face. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says hoarsely.

‘It’s okay.’ She smooths down her skirt, runs a hand through her hair.

‘Was that…?’

‘Yes.’ Alana kisses his cheek, long and gentle. ‘We can’t do it again.’

Will nods. ‘I know.’ He closes his eyes. ‘What side of the line did that come from?’

‘No-man’s-land,’ says Alana softly.

Will gives a small, defeated exhale, and says nothing else.

Alana picks up her bag. ‘I’ll see you soon.’

She leaves him there, slumped against his desk with his head bowed, his pants still undone and his curls mussed. At the door, she turns back, and sees him slowly beginning to put himself away and zip himself up again, pausing to scrub a hand over his face and exhale a long, exhausted sigh. She feels a pang—she has, very likely, made everything so much worse—and then forces herself to walk out the door before she does anything else foolish, like go back to him and kiss his face and ask him to come home with her.

Alana walks through the empty halls of Quantico with Will Graham’s come leaking slowly down her thighs. _Never again,_ she thinks, firm in her resolve. She has to stop for a moment to lean against a wall, biting her lip hard against the threat of tears.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [Gefionne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gefionne/pseuds/Gefionne) and [b33x](https://archiveofourown.org/users/b33x/pseuds/b33x) for reading this over the summer and supporting me on my crusade to make Will Graham cry as often as possible!


End file.
